At this moment, at this very moment, I am simply aware of this. It is worship, but one can love it…one can touch it…one can hold it in one’s hands, one can feel its texture.
It is beautiful that the God of the philosophers is dead. I am a brigand. To be with me is to be a brigand, to be a Zorba and a Buddha at the same time. My vision is the vision of the ultimate unity between the Epicurean and the ascetic, between the materialist and the spiritualist. I do not belong to any category, I am a class unto myself.
This is so beautiful, and I mean so prayerful, so worshipful. When I say it is beautiful I am saying that nothing can be said about it. I am just pointing my finger to the moon, but my finger is not the moon.
There are moments when one cannot remain silent. One cannot say much, but one wants to share it, express it. Nobody till now has ever been able to say what it is…neither has anybody ever been able to resist trying to say.
I have been continually speaking for twenty-five years and only being misunderstood. Hence I have moved from the masses, but for the chosen few I am always available.
I hear Ashu’s giggle. She remains a lady, what a pity. Next to me, by my side, she remains a ladyship. Laugh, don’t giggle. Laugh so the stars fall. At least this house can fall. Don’t be afraid, we are going high. I say “we” knowingly because I am pulling you. We are going high, every moment higher and higher. If I stop speaking that simply means I am in such awe that I can only say “Aahhh!” Life’s greatest song – of such transcendental beauty that it cannot be sung.
Rabindranath, India’s greatest poet, wrote six thousand poems. When he was dying a friend asked him, “Good God! Why are you crying?” A tear comes to my own eyes that he was crying, even at the age of eighty years. One thinks a man should be sober, be serious, that death must be accepted, especially in India. The friend said, “God has given you such great talent. You have sung six thousand songs yet you are crying?”
Rabindranath said, just as I myself am saying with tears in my eyes, “That is why I am crying. Those six thousand songs are all efforts, but failures. The unsung has remained missing. I am weeping and crying, and asking God to help me a little more. Maybe I can succeed a little more next time. And you are telling me not to cry…. These are my last breaths….” And with tears in his eyes he died.
What a beautiful death – and a beautiful life too. And what courage to say “The song has remained unsung,” even after being a Nobel prize winner.
I cannot say what I am seeing…I cannot describe it. It is going to be a failure, but there is nothing to be worried about. It is better to fail before great beauty than not to try at all.